Artistry
by SilouhetteDreams
Summary: Francis Bonnefoy was not so long ago a renown artist, gathering inspiration from every piece of matter about him. But all of that has changed now. In an attempt to save his job, he searches for a truly anonymous painter, and maybe his inspiration as well.
1. Prologue

Paris.

The city of beauty, love, and lights.

We find the one whom this story is about gazing out of his extravagant townhouse, smiling idly at the horizon. It was early morning, the sun beginning to rise and painting the skies a peculiar shade of pink. He stretched and yawned, then scratched the the scruff upon his chin thoughtfully.

The alarm clock blared an annoying series of beeps, but Francis had long been awake. He had been losing sleep lately, but hadn't thought much of it, shoving it off as either stress or perhaps too much rest, for he hadn't worked for almost 8 months now. He felt fine, or at least he told himself he did. He turned the infernal machine off, and began his usual routine of showering and dressing himself.

You see, Francis Jean-Marie Bonnefoy was a renowned artist, a prodigy, in fact. But alas, he hadn't had any inspiration as of late. What is an artist without inspiration? Francis wished he could answer that question, but found it too difficult. The best answer he could think of in response was "Nothing, absolutely nothing!" which he would then brood over. Hah, and they sought to call him a great, a genius, perhaps. But an artist without inspiration is a genius without intelligence.

Nothing.

Francis sighed softly when he found his way back to the window he always gazed out of, thinking the skyline would make a marvelous painting. He looked around his bedroom, only to find half-finished work, uncreative and doomed from the first swipe of his beloved paintbrush. He turned and his eyes wandered to his abandoned studio, the contents locked away to even his own eyes.

Our dear Francis-who was normally overly confident and (by all means of the word) cocky-was at a loss, almost in a state of depression. Everything he tried to paint, sculpt, or even sketch on a piece of paper seemed too dark, morbid. Such a change from the precious artistry locked away in that studio of his, he thought. Not that he dared a glance at the past that his place of peace now held. No. He had no desire to see the evidence of change and loss.

He jumped suddenly at the sound of a violent buzzing, his cell phone causing a raucous as it wished to sing, but was forced to be set to vibrate. Francis looked down at the phone upon his nightstand, and smiled to himself at what the Caller ID read. He didn't pick up, figuring that if the message was truly important it would be left politely in his voicemail.

And that it was.

"Answer your phone, you bloody sod!...You best be awake, you useless twat. Get your raunchy French arse down here and we're getting breakfast." Click.

How lovely. Arthur decided to pay him a visit.

Francis chuckled, threw his overcoat on, and decided as he walked out the door that maybe this was a new beginning.


	2. Chapitre Un

"Good day, Francis. Wish I could say it were good to see you."

Francis smirked, "Oh, but it is good to see you, mon cher."

Arthur-a stoic Londoner particularly blessed in the eyebrow department, and with an upper lip so stiff it would put the soldiers outside Buckingham Palace to shame-was Francis's manager and publicist. Francis was always thankful to see the man whom he owed his career to, however chill he may be. Besides, Francis had an eye for reading people, and knew deep down Arthur indeed felt the same way, and thankful for him as well.

Arthur turned sharply, and Francis took in his surroundings. People bustled about, taking down garlands and greenery, lights and glistening stars. He paused, bewildered. It couldn't be.

"Arthur, what is today?"

"Why, it's New Year's Eve, you git."

Francis cleared his throat. He knew that, yes, it was nearing the winter solstice, but when on Earth did he let Christmas pass without a hint of recognition? He never knew it was possible to let the thought of Christmas out of your head, even if you weren't going to be celebrating it with anyone. But obviously it was. He hardly even seemed to recognize the change of season. Had he lost his artist's eye for detail?

Francis looked up at the lights and exhaled slowly. "Réveillez-vous appel..."

Arthur turned back at him with a nasty glare, emerald eyes burning like acid. "What in blazes are you dawdling at? You act as though you've never seen Christmas decorations before! What are you, some awful American redneck who leaves his Christmas lights on all year round?"

Francis shook his head, and had to smile a bit at the analogy. "I just...was wondering where we are to get breakfast. If it is a holiday, what restaurants are open?

Arthur then smiled and looked at innocent as an angel. "Why, my place of course."

Francis blinked. "Mon dieu..." He whispered softly as he followed the other man into a cab.

**-x- **

"No no, Arthur, please!" Francis pushed the blond out of the way of the toaster. The Brit was such a horrendous cook he had somehow began to burn toast.

Of course, Arthur pushed Francis back. "You bag of bullocks! I am perfectly capable of making toast!"

Francis then easily picked up the small blond (who pouted like a child) and placed him beside the fridge. "Obviously not, mon ami. Set about some drinks. You can at least make tea...oui?"

Arthur dusted himself off, embarrassed of being thrown and picked up like a rag doll. "You will not speak that god-forsaken language in my house." He muttered before taking a fine teapot out of a china cabinet.

Francis snickered. He was truly enjoying the awful company.

He stood aside as he let Arthur once again take over the kitchen, watching his teapot carefully before it whistled with the screech of steam. Francis preferred a nice red wine at this time of morning, but was too kind to say so. Plus, he assumed Arthur knew this, as long as they'd worked together. He just respected him enough to let him make his beloved tea.

Arthur took the pot off of the range, and Francis got out two teacups from his fine china. He wasn't sure why he was using this kind of tableware for a breakfast. Was it simply because it was a holiday? Francis thought. What if he was trying to fire him in the most polite way possible? Had everything really gotten away from him that much?

"Hey, twit, sit those blasted cups down. This pot is still hot through these mits you know." Francis set the cups down and sighed. He normally would've made a comment about the Englishman's rather feminine taste in oven mits, (along with his matching apron, of course) but was too worried about his own sanity to do so.

With a simple breakfast of toast and a few strips of bacon set in contradiction with such fine china, Francis took a seat. "This is very kind of you, Arthur. Merci."

Arthur nodded wordlessly.

Francis twirled the bacon in his fingers nervously. He figured that if he were to be fired, he wanted it done quickly and painlessly. "Though it's a bit out of character for you to invite me to breakfast without a previous engagement."

Arthur thoughtfully sipped his tea in response.

Francis looked up at the blond, blue eyes all business and his voice to the point. "Why am I here, Mr. Kirkland?"

Arthur sat his teacup down and blinked at the Frenchman. Whenever he had first hired the artist fresh out of college, he had made it a point to always refer to him as Mr. Kirkland, or boss, but never were they friends, never would there be a first name basis. But eventually, after Francis had learned his name and various nicknames, Arthur got tired of telling him the same thing repeatedly.

And, really, he had grown quite fond of the lad.

Arthur cleared his throat, and began. "There is indeed a matter that I felt we needed to chat about."

Francis listened, blue eyes wide and nervous. "Well..?"

Arthur sighed. "I've gotten many questions as to when you will be productive again. I can't continue selling prints of the same artwork forever, Francis."

The artist closed his eyes and sighed. "I know, my apologies..." He was truly a bit happy to hear that his older work was still selling in prints, but he knew that his manager was right, and what was about to be said.

"Francis...this is serious. Your last major accomplishment was years ago. And since then you've only given me paintings and sketches of such repetitive things. It's as if you have lost your creativity. I never thought that could happen." The Brit sighed, then swallowed his pride and added. "You showed so much promise."

Francis watched him. "I...I haven't had much inspiration lately. Art takes a lot of time, but then it lasts forever." He tried to smile reassuringly.

Arthur pierced him with his acidic eyes again. "I don't have much time, Francis. I'm beginning to look at other universities and establishments for new artists to grant funding to. Do you know how many art majors dream of being funded by Arthur Kirkland? Published and managed by such prestige?"

Francis nodded once more. He couldn't believe it himself when he got Arthur's call a decade ago.

Arthur picked up his teacup again. "I've found a young artist with almost as much promise as you held."

Francis looked up at the Brit, now in curiosity. "Who?"

Arthur drummed his fingertips against the table. "That's the thing. I can only recognize his or her work. It's as if they want to be kept anonymous, or simply are so unknown their name can't be researched."

Francis took a bite of the burnt toast, hid his disgusted face, and took a quick drink of Earl Grey. "Th-Then how are you aware the work is of the same artist?" He sputtered.

Arthur didn't catch his discomfort, and pulled out a folder. He took out some photographs of a mural, then two of other paintings. He pointed to a spot of red on the mural. "No matter what, the artist adds a red maple leaf, whether it makes sense in the setting of the work or not." He then pulled out a magnifying glass and held it up to the other paintings, finding the leaf once again.

Francis leaned over the table to get a closer look. "The maple artist?" He had to chuckle at the nickname he just came up with. But then examined the photographs once more. He cocked his head to the side. Even in the small photograph, he could see the blends of color and detail. He felt as though he needed to find the original artwork and observe it himself.

Arthur glanced up at Francis. "You seem interested."

Francis touched the photograph. "Arthur...what if I could find the artist?"

Arthur shook his head. "You don't need to be chasing after some other artist if you have work to do yourself, git. You're about to lose your job as it is."

The Frenchman gritted his teeth, then looked up at Arthur with the most solemn, sincere expression he could muster. "Arthur, s'il vous plait...I feel as if I need to. Keep me until I can at least find you the artist you mean to presume to replace me with."

Arthur glared at him, think eyebrows making him look even more annoyed with the man's incessant pleading.

Francis cleared his throat, and took Arthur's hands. He gazed into the Brit's eyes through long eyelashes and tucked a stray hair behind Arthur's ear. "You know...I owe my career to you, mon cher. You're the reason I am here. You could say you're my life. I can't see you throw that away without at least repaying you first." Francis smiled, hoping he still could find the charm he had in college.

Arthur still glared, but a light blush dusted his cheeks. He shoved the Frenchman away.

"F-Fine. You have a week, you pathetic sod. Now cheerio. Get out of here before I change my mind."

Francis beamed and jumped across the table again, kissing the Englishman on both cheeks in pure bliss, something he hadn't truly felt in a while.

He scrambled toward the door. "Merci, mon cher! I will not let you down~" He winked, and strode merrily out the door.

His employer, manager, and publicist rubbed his temples. "Bloody hell, what in Queen Elizabeth's name have I done..?"


	3. Chapitre Deux

Francis called a cab from Arthur's house, and soon began to fill with dread. What if he couldn't find this artist? What if ruined this last chance? He sighed. He thought about going right back to Arthur and asking for a bit more information on that artwork. Specifically where that mural was. But he hated to ask the Brit for help. He figured he'd say no anyhow.

Francis paid the cab driver and stepped out onto the sidewalk.

"Hmm..." His eyes wandered up his apartment building, but decided that today was a new day. He would go up there, maybe nap, drink. Who knew? He was wasting his life away. He turned the other way, and walked past the shady building.

Francis couldn't get over how fresh the air felt. He took a deep breath, and smiled, eyes as blue as the sky. He had a good feeling about today.

He needed to change.

A boy with hair so blond it was practically white laughed merrily, being chased by a bouncy ball of snow white fur.

"Hanatamagooo! Stop that~" The dog's name was curious, but Francis smiled at the happy site. The boy stopped whenever he saw he was being watched, not sure whether to wave or head back inside. Francis smiled and waved once to the boy, and walked on.

Not so long ago, if this would've happened, the artist would've been well recognized. His face had been on every cover of every magazine and his work featured in at least one gallery in every country. Maybe the boy would've smiled back or even ask for an autograph.

Francis walked on.

The sky was beginning to grow cloudy. He wondered if it were going to rain, or perhaps snow. It was January and cold enough. He shivered.

_Maybe I should've gotten a scarf as well..._ He thought, looking down at his overcoat. He buttoned it up. The wind was beginning to bite at his torso, the temperature dropping.

Dii-iing~

The sound was that of a door being opened (or closed) and ringing a bell on the banister. It was something Francis recognized, but hadn't heard in what seemed like years.

As the door closed, the gusty wind caught a hint of the smells inside. One of them being a single artist's truest love.

"Mm~ Coffee~"

Deciding that he had a few dollars to spare-and it would be nice to get something to warm him up-Francis walked inside the little coffee shoppe, smiling cheerfully at the fact that now he had caused the little bell to ring at his arrival.

He looked around at the inside of the restaurant, round tables set in no specific pattern and dark chairs askew. Many tables had two or three people sitting at them, chatting, perhaps on a date. The neutral and dark colors had brought warmth to the blond, but suddenly he felt cold once more.

And alone.

However, he couldn't bring himself to step back outside. It seemed rude to walk back out, since that stupid bell made it clear he had made it inside anyway. So he made one more sweep of the coffee shoppe, spying a small bar. It was empty, except for another blond man on a laptop soaking up the place's wi-fi.

Francis took a seat and crossed his legs. The register was directly in front of him, so he assumed he could order here. But no one was at the desk. He looked past the various coffee and bakery items to see where everyone was. He realized he should probably be patient, the little shoppe was pretty packed, but it's incredibly difficult no matter who you are to sit and wait to be served.

He tapped his toe against the tall barstool, and hummed a tune. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a flash of auburn hair come out of the kitchen, but turned and looked out the window, trying to convince himself that he could be patient.

A huff behind him, and then he heard a half-familiar voice. "I'm sorry, sir, but have you been helped yet?"

Francis smiled politely at the woman, but then blinked.

She blinked back, and leaned a bit closer to him. "Francis? Is that you?"

Francis nodded. "Lizzie? It can't be." He blinked down at her nametag, which read "Elizabeta." He swallowed the shock of seeing someone whom he'd gone to both college and even high school with. "I haven't seen you in ages, mon beauté!"

The woman threw the bandana over her head down on the countertop, her wavy auburn hair glimmering almost golden. "Eduard! I'm taking my break, but please get me an order of my specialty! I gotta make sure you did it right this time." She took a seat by her old friend. "In fact, make that two." She winked at Francis.

He chuckled. "I sure hope you have good taste. But if it is _your_ specialty I assume it's fabulous."

She then punched him in the arm with a lot more forced that expected.

"Oww~" He rubbed the pain away, shaking his head but still smiling brightly. "I can't believe I've missed the feeling of you nuking me in the arm. I need those you know!"

"Of course you do, fancy pants artist pervert." Her green eyes danced as the insult left her mouth. She had always called Francis that since their freshman year of college whenever she caught him sketching some...questionable pieces. Francis continued to smile, a bit lost in nostalgia.

Elizabeta had to step up and throw her arms around him, and squeezed tightly. The blond was a bit shocked at first, not feeling that kind of contact in so long, especially from someone as attractive as Elizabeta. As she began to squeeze him in the toughest bear hug known to man, he hugged her back with an "oof."

She finally released him and his broken ribs. "I've missed you, Francis." Her eyes so sincere, her friend dropped his to the ground. "Where in the hell have you been?"

Francis shook his head. "I don't even know, mon cher. I don't even know."

The Hungarian took the two insulated cups as they were delved out to her, and passed one to Francis. That's when he noticed her left hand.

"I know this may be a personal question, but, weren't you and that music fellow engaged?" He found it strange, her hand seeming naked.

She in turn touched the empty spot and nodded.

"Roderich and I were married for about 5 years, wed directly out of college. Things started to slip out of hand, and we just thought it would be better to go our seperate ways. All it took was a paper and a judge."

Francis listened intently. "I...I was not aware. Désolé, Elizabeta."

In college, everything seemed perfect and carefree. The thought of paying the school back for the experience nonexistant. Elizabeta was a gifted flutist, and could mesmerize anyone when she danced. She and Francis had sort of connected, him being an Art student. In their small high school, the Art and Music departments always had performances together, along with the occasional theatrical performance from those in Drama. In fact, as Francis remembered correctly, he had hit on the girl after seeing her practice some ballet, and she beat the shit out of him. She then apologized, and Francis had to laugh.

"No hard feelings right?" Her accent Francis couldn't recognize, but that might've been because he'd taken three blows to the head.

"Oui, yes, yes. No hard feelings." He rubbed his head, still laughing. "I'm Francis. I should've probably introduced myself instead of making lewd comments on your flexibility."

"Elizabeta. Lizzie, preferably." She smiled, and looked a lot less fierce, and much more beautifully serene.

From then on, the two began to joke around, and Francis was awed at how much this girl reminded him of a guy friend who you'd drink with. She was a tomboy, but if you didn't see that you'd assume she were a model, probably for that hair of hers. She always wore a bandana, except for performance nights.

Then she'd wear a red carnation and Francis wished he could always take her home.

Francis took a drink of the hot beverage, finally cool enough to sip. It tasted of spice and Year 11 and courage. It tasted like her and her tongue and a punch in the face.

He swallowed.

She looked at him expectantly. "Do you like it?"

Francis closed his burning eyes. "Everything but the aftertaste."


	4. Chapitre Trois

"F-Francis..."

Slurred speech, her breath.

"Oh, ma petite fleur, I've wanted this for quite some time~" He kissed her neck, pressing her up against the wall in a bedroom he half-recognized, memory blurred by alchohol and time.

"You-ah~-we're...but, Roderich..."

He gave her a nice little nip below her jawline.

"Shh shh shh...shh~" He pressed his lips to hers once more, tasting something like tequila, along with a taste that could only be described as "Lizzie." Spice and cinnamon and _mmm._

She kissed back, closing her eyes and relaxing, letting him press her harder against the wall. He ran his hand up her thigh, under her short cocktail dress.

To come to a party dressed like that and engaged, Francis took it that she was asking for this.

"What in the hell do you think you're doing?" The couple jumped, and Francis pulled away and looked at his friend, only to turn into a sharp punch which would later turn into a black eye.

"Gilbert...I..." Francis was not one for fighting. He'd always lose, and he couldn't bear to think of even trying to fight his best friend.

"How did you not know? The way I looked at her tonight, how I would watch her and that puss Rod! I invited her tonight to be in _your_ place."

Oh yeah, that room was Gilbo's. Francis guessed that the bird in the corner should've probably had given it away, but he was drunk and had more on his mind at the time than if there was a _canary_ in the room.

"I just-I...I'm sorry, Gil."

Elizabeta had long since disappeared.

"Bros for life, my ass."

And that was the last time he'd spoke to Gilbert Beillshmidt.

Francis downed the coffee in silence before the girl that he'd hooked up with at one damn party and lost one of his favorite people in the world.

Where was he?

And Antonio...

Antonio had never been able to pick a side after Francis and Gilbert had split, and felt as though he was constantly caught in the middle. He eventually split away from both of them. The Spaniard was always so cheery and bright. Francis would do anything for him right now.

Elizabeta watched Francis carefully. "Francey...?"

The blond looked up at her, silent.

"What's on your mind?"

He chuckled coldly. "How much I've fucked up."

The Hungarian took his hand. "It's never too late to get all of it back though."

Francis sighed. "After college I immediately stepped into the limelight, and left everyone behind. I...I have lost Gilbert and Antonio. I haven't spoken to them since the last year of college. I just...I-"

Elizabeta gave his hand a tough squeeze, the strongest and wisest person he knew. "Antonio is in town. He came in here maybe a month ago."

"I doubt he'd want to see me, mon cher."

She then had to hit him upside the head. "This is _Antonio_ we're talking about. I don't think the guy has seen a sad day in his life."

Francis had instances he could name which proved the latter untrue, but he nodded. It would be much easier to gain Antonio back than Gilbert.

Unless...

No. That would take time. That would take actually finding the albino.

"Have you seen Gilbert?"

Lizzie shook her head. "Haven't heard a word from him." She looked solemn, her green eyes pointed downward.

Francis smiled at her. "Do you miss him?" He hoped she did, or else what he was planning would never work.

The Hungarian shrugged.

"He always had a funny way of going about things. It would be nice to see him again."

Francis stood then. "Well, I have to find someone anyway, or else I lose my job. I might as well pick up some of the pieces I've left along the way. Where is Antonio?"

"I hear he's started a tomato farm outside of a small village called Montigny-le-Roi. Whenever I saw him he mentioned that he had just ventured into the city to say that he had been to Paris."

Francis looked out the window. It had began to snow. He had a wild gleam in his eye. "How about you give me a refill. I think it's time that I paid old 'Toni a visit."


	5. Chapitre Quatre

Montigny-le-Roi was quite a drive from central Paris.

Though generally Francis stayed within walking distance of anywhere he thought he needed to go to, he would take the occasional cab. However, a cab fee for a 3 hour drive would be outrageous.

So, the blond revved up his car.

The new Opel GT certainly turned heads, sunlight gleaming off of the slick black vehicle in a flashy way that seemed perfect for the cocky artist. Plus, he would take the top down, and let his wavy, shoulder length locks catch the wind.

And Aviators. The look wasn't complete without some shiny Aviators.

He didn't seem to care about the fact that he hadn't driven much in the past year or so and his skills definitely showed it. (And surely the elderly woman whom he almost knocked from her walker agreed that he was certainly a bit rusty.)

He whistled along with a catchy American pop tune on the radio and ran at least a good 10 kilometers over the speed limit at all times.

Hey, he was nervous.

-x-

Francis finally slowed down as the area around him began to change from villages to farmland. It then occurred to him that he didn't know what his old Spanish friend's farm or farmhouse looked like. There weren't very many tomato farms in France anyway, (come to think of it, Francis wondered if tomatoes could even _grow_ in France longer than a summer), but surely he couldn't be the only one. Hopefully there was a sign or a mailbox with his Spanish friend's surname upon it. Would he see the bright red of tomatoes in fields alongside the highway?

Francis took his sunglasses off and watched the fields go by. He was truly beginning to wonder if this was a mistak-

_SPLAT._

Francis swerved at the impact, and glared in the direction of the obviously amused obnoxious laughter, and sped ahead. Nobody egged his car!

He popped it into a random driveway, turned around, and sped down the road beside the field of which the object took flight from.

The Frenchman looked out angrily, determined to get his revenge on the prankster. He didn't realize that he had driven all the way up the narrow dirt road between the fields and was coming up on a house. He huffed.

He'd just go inside and give the owner his two-cents on their meddlesome teenage child, for that's who he thought probably threw whatever at his beautiful car.

He parked it angrily, sharp and sloppy. As he opened the door of the car the foreign object fell, and he paused as he noticed what it was.

Hm. A very squashed tomato.

However, his fury returned as he heard the immature snickering once again, and shuffles through leaves as if the deviant were running through the fields. He then heard a screen door shut.

Francis stomped up, fists clenched, to the door. He knocked rather agitatedly, and cried "Hey!" hoping to get an answer. Though he figured if the immature snob who'd threw the blasted veg-fruit at him were the only resident present, he wouldn't be dumb enough to answer the door.

With a sigh, the blond gave up. The fury burning in his blue eyes calmed back down to pools of calm cerulean, and he simply pulled out a towel from the back of his car and wiped off his door.

He stepped back inside, and started the Opel GT. It purred pleasantly.

He began to drive back up the narrow road.

He noticed a farmer out harvesting whom he didn't see making his way through the first time. He had on a straw hat and was tanned by the sun. He seemed to be whistling a tune.

Ha, maybe that was the rotten kid's father.

Francis pulled over by the field, and wondered in what language to call the man in. He figured English would once again be best.

"Hello, sir! Can I have a word?" He cupped his hands around his lips to make sure his words carried.

"HEY!" He boomed when he received no response.

Finally the man peeked up over the vines and waved. He began to trudge through the dirt toward Francis.

"My apologies, señor. I've been working all day and we don't get many visitors out here."

Francis blinked at the accent. Whenever the farmer got within reach he shamelessly took his hat off.

"Antonio?"

The dark brunette's bright green eyes gave Francis a good look. "Francis, mi amigo... What...what are you doing here?'

"I felt as though I needed to see you." With a solemn sigh he looked down. He knew he couldn't have expected Antonio to just take him back after a rough end of friendship and then years of silence.

Antonio put a hand on his back. "Si, we have some catching up to do."

And he smiled that old smile and Francis felt as light as he did before the burden of losing it all.

-x-

"So, what brings you here?"

Antonio's farm house was warm and smelled like herbs. It was rustic and simply Antonio. Francis had to look around and feel a bit ashamed. With as ambitious and self-absorbed as both he and Gilbert were, he never realized maybe they never gave Antonio his chance to shine.

Francis took a seat on a wooden chair at the table. "Well, I had heard word from Lizzie you were in this little town," he chuckled, "on a whim I decided to come out here and try to find you."

Antonio ruffled the blond's wavy hair. "Well, welcome back, Francey." He grinned**,** showing lots of teeth. He sat down on the tabletop.

Francis was astonished at how much the chipper brunette hadn't changed. He was still nicely tanned and looked so young. His hair was a little longer, and maybe a shade lighter, but his green eyes were still bright and he still seemed as free as ever.

And still quite handsome, Francis chuckled.

"Thank you, mon ami," he sighed, "it has been too long."

"Te echaba de menos, mi amigo. I missed you."

Francis blinked up at him, feeling his cheeks flush a light pink. "I...I thought..." He cleared his throat.

"I thought you hated me."

Antonio hopped down from the table and walked to the stove, beginning to pull out some spices.

"I never hated you. I was jealous that you'd gotten everything you'd ever wanted, but I never hated you. I thought you'd get a hold of me again. I had lots ofthings I wanted to tell you, but I couldn't call you because you were always on the road. Always going. And I couldn't get your number because you were so famous. Like I said, I missed you, you cabeza estúpido."

"Stupid head? And for a moment there I thought you'd matured, mon cher." Francis chuckled.

Antonio dropped a pan a little bit too hard on such an old vintage stove.

"I meant it, Francis."

Cold.

His voice was so cold.

And flat.

Francis blinked at the back of the Spaniard's head. "D-Désolé, 'Toni. I just...was trying to lighten the mood, is all."

Antonio had grown up, indeed.

Francis listened to the sounds of water boiling and spices shaking.

"...Are you unhappy, mon cher ami?''

Antonio sighed and shook his head. "No, I'm very happy. But I didn't accomplish what I wished back when we were college students. When you and I and Gilbert were a trio."

Francis blinked again.

"Do you even know what that was, mi amigo? Do you know what my dreams were?"

Antonio turned to gaze at Francis with gentle eyes. He was so sincere.

He was so hurt.

Francis had to look down. "I...non, I...I don't remember. I...did you ever once tell me?"

Antonio chuckled, and it sounded solemn, half-empty. "I had. I told both you and Gilbert, at least once. Remember the day I treated you two to a picnic?"

Francis thought back. It was autumn, which was Antonio's favorite season. As a child on a farm with his grandparents, he had always worked hard in fall, because it was time to harvest, and after he worked hard, he was rewarded with cash or other privileges. He would always share whatever he had earned between the three of them, and try his hardest to make it equal. This was one of those instances. However, instead of a dinner at a restaurant or a trip to an arcade, he was up to something else.

He was taking them back to the house his parents were killed in.

He had said it was a picnic, because there was an old wooden picnic table. Francis recalled it was a dark red, and the paint was weathered and chipping. A couple had carved their initials into it, combining them with a plus sign.

"MH is my mother, Marcela Hernandez. And JC is my father, José Carriedo." Antonio looked down at the scratches made lovingly, running his fingers along the etches in a bit of a daze.

Francis smiled at them. "They really did love each other, didn't they?"

Gilbert, of course, appeared bored. He'd brought his bird along, and was watching it fly around them with his head resting against his hand.

Antonio sighed. "It's funny how this remained."

Francis, however, paid attention and tried to truly be sympathetic. "You never mentioned how they died, mon ami. I always just assumed it were a car accident, or something of that nature."

Antonio took both of their hands. The picnic table sat below a shade tree, probably an oak, but Francis didn't care enough about trees to notice the differences in their leaves. They crunched along pieces of dry red and yellow and brown that littered the ground, and on the other side of the tree there was a pile of rocks.

Gilbert shook his hand away. "Mein Gott. What the fuck is this Antonio? I thought you said we'd have beer..."

Francis hit his head.

Antonio sighed. "Vamos, I just want you to see this."

At the bottom of the hill Francis noticed something. The way the piles were laid out**...** it was strange. There were etches inside where things might've once sat or worked, like tables or pipelines.

It was a fire.

The grass had grown around the rock which hadn't crumbled down without support. The ground was fertile due to the ash, and everything was a complete loss.

Antonio had long wandered into the area with the most rock still surrounding it. He knelt down into the grass. Francis sat down beside him, and Gilbert sort of leaned against the rubble.

"Mi habitación. This was my room."

Gilbert blinked, everything hitting him all at once, realizing that "Hey! This was the tragedy of my best friend's childhood!"

He sat down beside Antonio, and he and Francis pulled them all together in a group hug.

Antonio sighed. "Gracias, mi amigos."

Gilbert shrugged. "Yeah we're bros for life, right?" He had known that he had kind of been a dick, so he was trying to make up for it now. Antonio and Francis both knew this, but it was good to accept whatever empathy Gilbert gave. It didn't happen too often. He was a good guy and everything, butit just wasn't his style.

So Antonio hugged them back and nodded. "Bros for life."

The two pulled away and Antonio stood. He brushed himself off. "You know, if I wouldn't have gotten out of the house, I wonder what would've happened to me."

Gilbert shrugged. "Well, we wouldn't be a trio."

Francis smiled at him. "I can't imagine life without ever having you, 'Toni. You're life could be described as tragic and yet you're so chipper and bright and show care to everyone around you. It's…quite admirable."

He looked down. "I wish I could be more like you."

Antonio smiled and put his hand on Francis's shoulder. It wasn't too often that you heard him say he wished he could be someone else. "No, mi amigo. You're you for a reason."

Francis reached down slightly and gave his friend's ass a little squeeze. "Yes, but I sure do wish I had _this_."

Antonio just had to laugh and swat his hand away. "Lo siento. That's not going to happen."

Gilbert threw a rock, which hit Francis in the back of the head.

"Hey, you fags, I thought we were gonna be eating! Where's the food?"

Antonio picked up the rock and threw it back at him. "You can never think of anyone but yourself!"

Gilbert jumped out of the way and the rock fell with a thud. "No, I figured you guys were hungry too, so."

Francis sighed and jumped over the pile of rock that separated the inside of the demolished house and what used to be the backyard.

Antonio smiled at them, green eyes shimmering with tears, admiration, and maybe something else. "I want to invent something for the rural families. House fire alarms or sprinkler systems. Something. Something that can prevent children from becoming orphaned like I did. Something that can keep them with their Mami and Papi and only visit their Abuela's for the holidays. That's how it should be. And too often it isn't."

During his reverie, Francis had been picking at his cuticles, and hadn't noticed the blood beginning to run down his hand. He quickly stuck it in his mouth.

"Antonio...I remember. I remember what you wanted."

Antonio began mixing in a bowl, still turned away. He pounded tomatoes with what seemed like a little bit more force that necessary, once again.

"I supported you and Gil all through our friendship, even after you screwed up at that party. I still tried to help you two through, even if you didn't want to even see each other. I'm at least happy to see you made something of yourself."

"What's happened to Gilbert?" Francis figured the albino German didn't care about him, but he needed to know.

Gilbert wanted to be famous. He wanted all eyes on him. He didn't care what happened**.** He couldn't sing, but he could act pretty well. He just didn't do anything with the Drama team for fear of being called a puss. He got to where he would go to parties and do the most ridiculous (and sometimes dangerous) things to get attention. He would advertise his blog any chance he got.

"Last time I caught up with him, it was a few years ago. He was at his brother, Ludwig's bar. He was drinking away his sorrows...lo pobre."

Poor thing was right.

"So, he never accomplished anything?"

Antonio stirred thoughtfully. "He put all of his beans in one basket, and he lost it. I think he still keeps up that silly blog though."

Francis cleared his throat. "I need to find him, mon ami. I need to apologize."

Antonio turned back to him with a small smile. "When you do, I want to see him again too. Hermanos para la vida."

Francis grinned. "Frères de la vie."

Brothers for life.

Antonio began pouring the mixture he had been making into another bowl.

"So, are you cooking? It smells délicieux~"

Antonio chuckled. "It's time to feed my pet."

Francis blinked. Antonio obviously had animals, but why would he cook something specific for one? Maybe he really treasured his animals.

Antonio walked to the other side of the house and yelled up a fight of stairs. "Lovino! Lunch is served!"

"I'm not coming you goddamn bastard!"

Francis blinked. "You have a roommate?" Lovino, apparently, also had an accent, though he was obviously an Italian.

A cranky one at that.

"Lovino! It's your favorite, cariño~"

Francis heard a huff, and then footsteps shuffling down the uncarpeted stairs. Antonio stepped away to reveal a dark-headed young man with bright golden eyes and a pout.

"Thanks, asshole." He muttered, and went to help himself to the pasta Antonio had made.

The Italian then noticed the blond seated at the dining room table and yelped. "Antonio, who the hellis this?"

"Well, Lovi, this is my old friend, Francis. He was paying me a visit. Why don't you introduce yourself?"

Lovino didn't say a word, just shook in his place.

"Bonjour, j'mappelle Francis. I went to college with Antonio. Who are you? He didn't mention he had a roommate." The Frenchman smiled politely, and spoke with a voice like velvet.

Lovino shrugged. "I'm Lovino. I met Antonio when he was over at Ludwig and Gilbert's."

"Oh, so you know Gil as well?"

Lovino blushed and spoke quietly. "Fratello was dating Ludwig."

Antonio chuckled and put his arm around the small Italian. "His brother, Feliciano, was dating Gil's brother, Ludwig. I introduced myself because Lovi didn't look very happy. We started talking and things went from there. I invited him to lunch a few times, and I wasn't sure if he were interested or not, but then he called me and invited me out and things took off from there."

Meanwhile, Lovino stood there, face turning redder by the second. Francis let this set in, then had to laugh.

"So, you're together? Oh, Antonio." Francis snickered.

"Actually, we're married." Antonio said matter-of-factly, and Lovino slipped away and ate his pasta, leaning against the wall.

Francis grinned. "That's wonderful, mon ami." He looked down. "I'm sorry I missed the wedding."

Antonio shook his head. "We eloped on Costa Blanca in Spain. It seemed right, since my great-grandparents lived in Madrid. Lovino's parents live in Verona, but Italian governments wouldn't recognize our marriage."

Francis didn't really have the heart to tell them that in France their marriage was void, so he smiled and nodded.

"Oh, I just remembered. Another reason why I came to this house in particular," he said.

Antonio and Lovino turned to him, Lovino looking a bit horrified.

"Si, what's that? We have no sign up with our last name. How did you know to follow this path?"

Francis looked out the window at his beloved sports car. "Some dick threw a tomato at my car."

Lovino yelped nervously. Antonio turned to him.

"Lovi...why must you throw tomatoes at whoever drives past our fields?"

"Well! In a car like that I just assumed he was a douchebag and deserved it! I didn't expect him to chase me, but it was fucking hilarious!" The Italian was laughing and waving his hands in surrender at the same time. Antonio was sighing and shaking his head while Francis glared at him.

"No hard feelings, riiight Francis? Mi amigo?" Antonio smiled up apologetically.

Francis sighed and nodded. "A tomato is pretty harmless, but I am not a 'douchebag.'"

Lovino walked by and gave his husband's ass a little squeeze. "Thanks for lunch, asshole. Ti amo." He walked back upstairs.

Antonio yelled back after him. "Te amo, Lovi!"

Francis was still smiling at them. "L'amour. You two...it's just funny. Lovino seems to have nothing nice to say, and you're so polite and cheery. It seems like you two wouldn't be that much of a match."

Antonio sat down with two plates, splitting the leftover pasta between the two of them. "I think that whenever you're looking for something, you won't be able to find it. You need to let yourself fall, to where you're convinced that it's much too dark, so you can let the right light shine through."

Francis twirled the pasta with a fork. "Oui, but, what if you're looking for something and you have to find it within a week or else you're fired?"

Antonio blinked. "Problems at work, mi amigo? Can I help?"

Francis reached inside his coat and pulled out the photographs of the paintings. "I need to find this artist, or else I lose my job. I'm on thin ice as it is."

Antonio nodded. He picked up each photograph and tore it apart with his eyes. "They all have the red maple leaf. That's interesting."

The blond chewed his pasta thoughtfully. "I'm assuming that after I find them, they're to be signed and take my place."

Antonio flipped to the next photograph, of the mural. "Sounds like a problemo, either way..." He stared at the mural, eyes widening.

"Oui, it's...Porqoui?'

"This mural. It's painted on the side of an apartment building in Versailles. Lovino and Itraveled through all of France after our wedding, trying to find land to build a house on. I could never forget it. It was breathtaking."

Francis dropped his fork. "Versailles? Do you know if that's where the artist resided?"

Antonio shook his head. "That's just the city where the mural is. Perhaps you could ask the city council, or apartment building owner."

Francis grinned and threw his arms around his old friend. "Merci, Antonio! Perhaps I can make this work! Merci, merci, merci!" Antonio laughed as he was squeezed to a pulp.

"I'm a married man! Off, off! And...you're welcome, Francis." He had been let go of. Francis took a napkin and pulled a pen out of his coat pocket, and jotted down his personal cell phone number.

"There you are, Antonio. Never hesitate to call. I'm afraid I need to go, if I'm to travel to Versailles tomorrow."

Antonio nodded. "It was nice to see you again, Francis. You're welcome anytime."

Francis turned as he walked back through the door. "Antonio, you've always been the light in my dark. Lovi is a lucky man."

Antonio chuckled. "You flatter me."

Francis shook his head. "I was so far into my own dark I didn't realize I had screwed up. Day one in this search for this artist, and I'm already picking up a few more things that I've lost. I'm sorry, Antonio. I will make this all up to you."

The Spaniard smiled. "No, mi amigo. Just you going back to the you that you once were is enough for me. Adios, Francis."

_Au revoir, 'Toni. Lovi certainly is a lucky man._

**((A special thanks to my husbando, Sve, who has stuck by me through the day that I hatched this plot bunny! My dearest edit!Nazi, without you, I would have so many typos and grammar failures, no one would keep up with this. So thank you, love. Especially through out Spain's dialogue, or else I would've gotten tons of bad reviews on how he sounded too refined. XD Waifu loves youuu~  
**

**Also, thank you to everyone reading this! I've gotten so many artist watches and story alerts! I never thought it would be this popular. Stay wonderful! 3))  
**


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